Always Running
by J.D. Jones
Summary: AU. Joey quickly gathered his things, papers and pencils thrown haphazardly inside his bag. "I'm starting to believe that's all you're good for. Running," Kaiba said, eyes focused on Joey's retreating back. Joey's focus, however, was on the door of Kaiba's mansion, the door that he will unceremoniously slam on Kaiba's face.


**Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh is not mine.**

**A/N: This little plot bunny was inspired by Luis J. Rodriguez's autobiography **_**Always Running La Vida Loca: Gang Days in Los Angeles **_**(I recommend it by the way). Still working on the pacing of this piece, so updates will be slow. Additionally, if you are interested in being a beta for **_**Always Running**_**, please shoot me a message ^^! Another pair of eyes never hurts : ).**

**Also, this fic isn't meant to be political, but if the tone says otherwise, then I apologize. This fic is rated T…for now xD.**

**Warnings: Language.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Prologue: Adrenaline Rush**

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_00:45 - East Domino_

It was hopeless.

He was supposed to sell his stash, give the green to Biggs*, get a cut of the sell, and be on his way to Martin's to hang out with the fellas.

Nobody said that one of his customers tonight would be from the FBI.

Nobody said that Joey would have to run for his life.

Joey cursed under his breath, sprinting as far away as he could from the scene of the crime. His chest heaved, cold sweat trickling down his back like cold fingers grazing his skin. The air was moist, a thick fog settling in from the west where the ocean slept. It took all his will power not to shiver, even though, consciously, he should have.

He fucked up. Big time.

He knew what he was getting himself into, but the last thing he wanted to do was to contemplate about the ethics of selling dope. He just recently got into this gig. Two months in. The green would put food on the table and would put clothes on his back. So what if his income is dependent on the drug addicted populace of lower East Domino? They were not going out of their way to provide for him that was for sure.

Survival. It was all about survival.

He could not ignore the ethics, however. Not anymore. And it was not because of what was happening to him now.

Two weeks ago, his father came to him asking for a hit. How his father knew that he was selling dope was beyond him. His father came to him as a broken man emasculated by capitalism; he was unemployed, his previous job outsourced to a developing country in Asia.

He could still remember his father's face that afternoon: aged lines on his forehead, lips purple from his constant smoking, cheeks red from the hot afternoon sun, and eyes black as if he was under a hypnosis, in a trance. Joey thought it beneath him to sell to his own father, so he said no. And as a precaution, Joey hid his stash underneath his bed, encased in a small cardboard box that said "fragile" on its sides, before heading out to school.

Two thirds of his stash were missing when he got back, his father sniffing them while he was away. Joey did not like the sight that greeted him at the doorway of his apartment: a drugged up man sprawled on the floor, passed out and sniffing at erratic intervals. He could not call the ambulance.

And he definitely did not want to call the police. So, Joey skipped school to take care of his father.

Joey had to carry his stuff to school after that.

He also owed Biggs $10,000, but his boss was _generous_. Half of it Joey would pay back through selling. The other half involved "favors."

"Fucking pig," Joey murmured.

He took a sharp right and ran down the sidewalk, the street lamps glaring down on him like spotlights. He could hear the sirens, the screeching tires, and the off-beat footfalls of the police force behind him. He did not dare to look back; the fog was growing thicker by the second, and it was already difficult to see in front of him.

At least he did not have to worry about bumping into people. No one would dare to venture out after dark in East Domino unless that person is a) looking for a fix, b) looking for a whore, or c) looking for both.

Joey quickly crossed the street and took a sharp left towards the subway. If he can reach there and get on the train, he would be safe. He would take the train downtown and hideout at the old inner city junkyard - the last place for a drug seller to hide.

He saw the stairs and started to quickly make his descent into the underground. His heart was not hammering against his ribcage as before, but his thighs were sore and were starting to cramp. He saw the last step and, with glee, he jumped down.

Survival. It was all about survival.

But the police was waiting for him.

Guns cocked and faces devoid of emotion.

Joey stopped, eyeing the fortress of black uniforms blocking his escape.

Shuffled feet halted behind him. He heard a gun click.

He was trapped.

A lone figure stepped away from the man-made fortress, his brown eyes tired and weary of the blonde youth in front of him.

_The FBI agent - _

"Even I would not consider the subway an escape route." The man took off the cuffs that were resting on his hip, walking towards Joey. "Hiding in a dumpster might've been a viable option. Especially in this fog."

"Speakin' from experience, old man?"

"Nope." He reached Joey and caught the youth's hands, snapping the cuffs in place. "For an inexperienced drug seller, you're quite predictable."

It was not until after being escorted into a police car and getting his mug shot at the police station that Joey realized that he was alone.

Physically and emotionally alone.

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*Biggs: A shameless reference to Final Fantasy. I wonder who got that? =)

**Please leave a review! Love to read what you all think :D.**


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